Son of the Rakshana: an Initiate's Point of View
by LunaEquus
Summary: View the story, the WHOLE story, through Kartik's eyes. To be read after Help Me. Rating is subject to change as story progresses. On temporary hiatus until TSFT comes out.
1. Chapter 1

**Yes. A new story. Again. I really want to hone my version of Kartik's POV. This shall be the ultimate test. The entirety of A Great and Terrible Beauty, in his point of view. I hope you are honest about my portrayal of him, but please remember that it is bound to be different from Rebel Angels, for he still has a bit of growing up to do, mentally, at least. Libba Bray created him, and I cherish him. Enjoy.**

"You have to follow her." The man's face is partially hidden in shadows but I can hear that he is eating an apple rather noisily. "Watch her every move." He takes a large bite that sends bits of juice flying off in every direction. "Make sure no harm comes of her."

"I will," I say in earnest.

"It will not be easy." He clears his throat. "It will take much sacrifice." Another wet crack into the apple. "She must always be within reach." He lights a cigar. The putrid smoke curls into the air, burning my eyes. "You must be strong."

I cannot help it. I cough.

He smirks and leans back into leather chair, completely submersing his face into shadow. "The life of a Rakshana brother is never easy," he says bemusedly. It is ironic and he knows it. "Go now, little Kartik." My eyes narrow at the name. "I believe you have a ship to catch."

"What ship? When?" This is the first I've heard of any ships.

"The _Mary Elizabeth_." He flicks open a pocket watch. The gold casing catches the light; I am briefly reminded of the bejeweled dancers I watched just before…_it_ happened. "Hmm. It seems you have ten minutes."

My stomach drops. I make for the door, but my superior has one last show of dominance to humiliate me.

"Kartik, before you go…"

"Yes?" I cannot mask the terseness of my voice.

He holds up his cigar. "My ashtray, if you'd be so kind."

It is within arm's reach of him. It takes all my control not to fling it at his head. I set it in front of him wordlessly.

He chuckles, a hateful sound. "You may go now. And remember…" I turn back to see the smoke engulf his face. "_Watch her._"

I nod silently, and then I am free, running as fast as my legs will take me.

The _Mary Elizabeth _looms before me, a monstrosity of metal against the placid Arabian Sea. People swarm about, carting luggage and saying their last goodbyes. I have nothing but a rucksack on my shoulder, and I've already said my last goodbye.

Amar is gone now, burned to ashes and floating along the Ganges. It was what he wanted, and yet…I selfishly wish for something to remember him by, a gravestone to visit or something of the sort. Instead I have two material possessions, a journal and a blade, but at least I can keep them with me.

Thankfully I am not the sentimental type; else I might never have made it to the ship in time. Stealthily, thanks to years of training, I dart in between passengers and deckhands alike, securing a hidden spot among the cargo. It is cold and the machine room's nearness drives me mad with the groaning and vibrating machines, but there is enough food and water to feed an army (ironically enough, it is meant to), and warmth can be found near a steam vent.

I have only one complaint. As many times as I have traveled by water, I have never found my sea legs. Or stomach. Whatever food I eat does not stay down for very long. That, coupled with lack of sunlight (for there are no windows, not even a measly porthole), does not make for a very healthy looking person. I catch sight of myself in the shiny doors of a carriage on board and grimace. I look as if I've been battling cholera, and no one ever fares well from that disease. Even hypothetically, as that is the cover-up for Mrs. Doyle's death.

I suspect "murder by evil spirit" is too much for the English public to handle. The daughter of the deceased, my charge, Gemma Doyle knows the truth. She saw it happen, but probably has no explanation of why, or how. I wonder if she has tried to tell anyone the truth, or if she attributes her vision to temporary insanity and buys the cholera excuse. Though she'd be labeled mad even if she did tell the truth. The English rely too much on their God to believe in evil spirits and other realms.

The Indians however…they believe too strongly in such spirits. Good, bad, human, or not, the Indians will worship them and only hope their offerings are enough. I cannot complain, for I am named for such a spirit – the god of war. It is a name I carry with pride, though I do not believe in any gods.

Let's just say I am glad to be Rakshana. We believe in the truth. Our brotherhood is based on the importance of truth, whether it is math, science, philosophy, or religion. We know what happens when one dies; we know Heaven and Hell. When some cultures base their lives on blindness and hope, the Rakshana puts faith in facts. And we are never disappointed.

It is an oddly empty life that I lead. I suppose once I transition from my training into full acceptance from the brotherhood, the secrets and mysteries I am to learn will fill the void. For now, the part of me that should be occupied by religion or companionship is an empty hole. Though I am used to it, it stills drives me mad.

The void has grown bigger as of late. I find it hard to focus sometimes, hard to breathe, hard to see, hard to feel. I grew up in an atmosphere of strong, jaded men. The only emotions worth having were those of determination, or anger. Sadness was considered weak; happiness was only attained as a result of success or revenge. I was therefore not prepared for my brother's death, or how my life would change in its wake.

I have been through denial, the short and tormented stage of grief. Every moment in the hours that followed his murder was spent anticipating his return. I could practically visualize him walking up to me, disheveled from the fight but alive. Every second ticked off made my heat beat faster and faster until I was certain I'd drop dead. Part of me wishes I had.

Anger followed closely after. I spewed strings of curses that I don't think were even valid. The blasted girl, it was all her fault. I hated her. I vowed to do everything I wasn't supposed to, track her down and hurt her, show her just some of the pain she caused me. I was so tempted. The feeling flares up even now sometimes, though I prefer to think of her with indifference. She is nothing but a means for me to move on with my life.

But my emotions are more unpredictable than I have ever known any other sober man's to be. It is with shame that I compare myself to a woman, fine one moment and crying the next. On this ship, it is intensified. I have nothing to occupy my time, nothing to keep the memories at bay. It is often that I relive that day and often that salty tears drip down my face and down my throat. I am waterlogged in more ways than one. I feel as if I'm drowning, but I know I must keep swimming. Land is on the horizon, and the grief will eventually ease.

I have no means to tell day from night, and I rely solely on my internal clock to tell me how far into the trip I am. At night, sleep ends abruptly with the terror that the ship has already made it to England, and I have failed to depart. These dreams terrify me, for I'd never willingly fail the Rakshana. Even if I had to stay awake the entire trip so I didn't wind up returning to India, I would. But I know that I'd never miss the ship docking, especially as I am right next to the machine room. Even with that knowledge, I still awake drenched in cold sweat, the thought of failure fresh in my mind.

During the daylight hours (more irony, as there is no daylight, at least not for me), I discover new heights of ennui. There is even a routine to it. When I get tired of reading from the same books over and over, I snoop around the cargo area. Then the rocking of the ship becomes too much for my land-favorable stomach. It is in this stage of the day that the most psychologically destructive things occur.

While I lay on the iron floor, the great stacks of luggage that conceal me from any intruders (other than rats, I've so far had to deal with none) appear to threaten to fall on me. Thanks to vertigo, I have a new fear – that I will forever be entombed by brass-studded leather and splintery wood. Here lies Kartik; this end up.

It is also with odd humor caused by lack of human contact that I notice other funny things about myself. My fingers are too long, but by the light of a stolen (borrowed?) lantern I can make them look like animals against the wall. My hair doesn't curl as much in the back of my head as it does in front. I've developed a liking to the scent of cinnamon (there was a crate full of it that I _accidentally_ opened), but it makes me sneeze quite easily.

All of these realizations are ridiculous and insignificant; they will not help me protect some English girl that aims for the jugular with strong legs. I still fear for my fertility, though within the Rakshana I may as well become a eunuch. I will not be able to marry, and I hardly see the point in getting tangled up with women otherwise. They are complicated and better admired from afar, especially ones that kick.

The large chamber echoes with my laughter, for I cannot seem to rid myself of the image of myself as a _hijra_, sari and all, begging at a wedding.

The shudder of machines winding down from their seemingly endless work snaps a bit of sobriety into me. The ship must be docking, and I must be leaving. I gather my things quickly, frantically thinking up an escape plan. It isn't until I feel the ship shudder to a complete stop that I have my course of action. I know from prior experience that the depths of the ship include the Third Class rooms. Therefore, if I can make it from the cargo area undetected, I should have no problem fitting in with the rest of steerage.

And it is with luck and practiced skill that I do just that. As I emerge into the first rays of sunlight I've encountered in days (weeks? Months?), anxiety hits me. All around me, people of all cultures and race talk excitedly, each in their own languages. I may not understand their every dialect or verb conjugation, but the meanings are clear. They all have places to go and people to see.

My stomach knots unpleasantly, this time not from the unsettled ocean, but from anxiety. I've come so far, but where do I go now? I've no further instruction from the Rakshana; only "catch a ship" and "watch the girl". I know this is meant to test my wits, but a break would be nice, perhaps a signal as to where to go next or at least a pat on the shoulder.

Hunger protests in my stomach. I could do with something to eat, maybe a pint of ale as well. I hitch my rucksack onto my shoulder and begin my trek to the nearest pub. It's not an order, but it's something to do. The girl can wait. She will probably wait long, for I have no idea of her whereabouts. Perhaps she joined the circus. Eloped to Paris. Frankly, it wouldn't matter if she did. The point is – England is a large country and I'm not entirely certain I could recognize her again. Though not many English girls have red hair like hers, they do wear hats often.

"The Eastern Star is hard to find."

"But it shines brightly for those who seek it." The words tumble out of my mouth before I realize what I have heard. I look for the owner of the unfamiliar voice. There is a man in a pinstriped suit leaning against the brick wall of a building. His hat, pulled low over his face, does little to conceal his prominent chin.

"Kartik," he says. "I have a message for you."

**Comments? Criticism? I appreciate _constructive_ criticism, but don't take too well to "I hate it, he's OOC" types. They make me sad. **

**By the way, a hijra is like an Indian drag queen that has been castrated. Look it up - it's pretty interesting actually.  
**

**No more summer camp! No more bratty annoying kids to herd around!,  
LunaEquus**

**Reviews make Kartik happy in the trouser area.**

**Fixed! Gave Kartik some more depth in the Amar situation. He still may seem a bit aloof about it, but it hasn't quite sunk in yet. **


	2. Chapter 2

**I love Kartik and I love getting into his head. Enjoy.**

"_Kartik," he says. "I have a message for you."_

I find myself being led into the pub by this stranger. _Not a stranger – he is Rakshana._ I find that I trust him by default. After all, he is technically family by organization, and I welcome anyone that can help me along.

We find an empty table in the darkest corner, under an especially low beam from which cobwebs hang. He holds out a tin of cigarettes to me.

"Care for a smoke?"

I shake my head. "No thank you." My only other experience with smoking proved that I had neither the taste nor the lungs for it. When something as gentle as a hookah pipe sets you coughing and sputtering, you tend not to want to try it again, especially in front of your superiors.

"Well, you're here so you must have done something right," he says, lighting his cigarette.

I don't really know how to respond to this. Well, I know how I'd _like _to, but I somehow think kicking the table over and punching him in the face for doubting my worth would prove me to be any more mature than this man obviously thinks. I take his false implication with a grain of salt and a clenched jaw. I shall prove myself in due time, and they will all beg my forgiveness when they are beneath me.

"The name's Cliff, but you don't need to remember that. I have further instruction for you." I perk up at this claim. He pulls out a piece of folded parchment. "Bloody hell," he grumbles. "Here. See if you can make any sense out of this."

I grab the paper he throws to me. It's damp and nearly all of the ink has run. I suddenly feel very sick.

"You alright, kid?"

"You don't have anything useful for me?" I croak. It's rude and unnecessary, but it's not as if he's jumping to make any shows of kindness.

The chair scrapes the rough floor as he stands up to access his pocket. "Here's some money that's meant for you." He tosses a small satchel onto the table. "There was more, but…you know." He holds up his tin of smokes with a mocking grin. "Good luck, _novitiate._" He walks off, leaving me fuming at the table.

With a frustrated sigh, I pull the lantern close to me. Trying to make sense of the bleeding words is seemingly more impossible than translating hieroglyphics without the Rosetta Stone. It cannot be done. I pocket the current bane of my existence and claim a seat at the bar. Perhaps a revelation will grace me once I have a full stomach.

I muse over my dilemma while spooning large quantities of steaming shepherd's pie into my mouth. I force myself to block all thoughts of failure from my mind. There are still options, still chances to stay on top of things. Miss Doyle and her family could not have arrived much earlier than I, though I do know we were not on the same ship. By my calculations, they should be holding a funeral for the deceased Mrs. Doyle. Typical of the English to ship their dead across oceans just to bury them in _their _land. Never mind the maggots, so long as all of London high society gets one last chance to gaze upon the rotting corpse of a woman they don't know. Are the tears from grief, or from the smell?

I suppose I can commiserate with my charge. We both lost our loved ones that day. I cannot help but still feel as if it is all her fault. They both died protecting her. I guess she's pretty special then, which deepens the mess I'm in. If she is so vulnerable, is it not my fault that I am currently unable to protect her? What if something happens to her? It will be my fault, though I cannot help it if certain brothers do not take me seriously enough to guide me in the right direction.

Back to my original train of thought. Funerals usually mean obituaries, and obituaries are found in newspapers. I take a paper from the stand on the bar and flip through the pages until I find the obituaries. Scanning the names, I can see that there is no mention of a Virginia Doyle anywhere. Unable to shake the feeling of defeat, I pay for my meal and leave.

I absently wander the docks near where the Thames empties into the North Sea. How easy it would be to fill my pockets with rocks and throw myself in. I've learned about many a warrior that would rather face death than failure. I pause and finger a few promising stones at the base of a fence. No. I'm too good of a swimmer anyway.

All of a sudden, I'm struck with a thought. The day of Circe's murders, Amar and I were close by Mrs. Doyle and her daughter. The girl was whining about something, many things really, but the predominant issue being that she wanted to go to London. It's not definite, but it's a start, and I do know a few people there that may be willing to help me.

As I walk the long miles to the city, I realize there are many more shady folk than I can remember there ever being. I take on the visage of a mad drunk to fend off the numerous beggars and prostitutes. Unfortunately, this has drawn other mad drunks to me. I find myself in the middle of a gathering of them, some sort of drunken celebration. I narrowly escape being violated by a man that calls me Becky.

I find a weathered old cricket bat in someone's trash. It may not be much, but I can serve as a handy weapon in the most dire situations. Though I'd never admit it to another living soul, I've always wanted a cricket bat of my own, but have never had the funds for one. Cricket is a pastime I greatly enjoyed in lighter times. Breezy free afternoons would find Amar and I playing the sport with some of our closer brothers. With a stab of pain so severe that tears blur my vision, I cling to the broken down bat as if it was my brother himself.

I am once again reminded of how much I miss him. The last time I haunted these parts was at his side, unafraid and excited to see more of the city. London suddenly feels like a strange land, turned upside-down by grief and confusion. I want to go back to India, to what's familiar to me. I want to curl up in the illusion that my brother still walks the earth. Part of me feels he'd be the first thing I'd see if I were to return to Bombay. That impossible possibility drives me mad with longing. What if he's there right this moment, looking for me?

"Kartik," he'd say bemusedly. "What on earth were you doing in London? You're place is here, with me. Go get changed, we're playing cricket. Let's see if you can beat me now, London-boy."

I laugh weakly at my own conjuration of my brother. Even in my tortured mind, he is still as good humored as always.

Thinking of my brother has roused another memory for my benefit. He is, _was,_ friends with a man that owns a tavern in East London. I am certain I can find hospitality there, something I'm in dire need of as the foggy night rolls in. The parts of the city are notorious for murders; I think about the famed Jack the Ripper with a shiver down my spine. That may have been many years ago, but I heard they have still not caught him…

With only my selective memory to guide me, I find the tavern with surprising ease. My brother's old friend recognizes me straightaway. He is a large man with a drooping face and bulging eyes. Even his puckered lips suggest the look of a fish's.

"Kartik, my boy! What brings you to London?" He claps a hand on my back in such a friendly way that I cannot help but feel ashamed that I cannot recall his name. He lowers his voice. "Wait, it is business, am I right?" he asks with a wink.

"Afraid so," I say quietly, for we've roused the attention of some patrons eating a late supper.

"Well, welcome then! I'm Timin, but you can just call me Tim. Everyone else does." I suppress a laugh, for his name means "large fish" in Sanskrit, and he certainly looks the part.

"I'm looking for a place to stay the night," I say.

He pauses a moment. "This is not an inn," he says loudly, as if talking to his customers. He walks me to the back of the room. "But I will always have a room for the brother of Amar," he says in a hushed voice. He points to a tapestry. "Behind there, whenever you need it."

"Thank you," I say gratefully.

"Come, sit at the counter. I have excellent food for you, my treat. You look like you need a good meal." I smile uncertainly. "Tell me, how is Amar doing?"

My face falls. "He is dead," I say softly.

Tim's bulging eyes grow larger as he mops at his forehead. He places a hand on my shoulder. "My dear boy," he says solemnly. "My deepest condolences."

I nod, unable to say anything due to the lump rising in my throat. I look around the tavern as he turns his back to prepare whatever food he wishes to give me.

My eyes settle on a man that has been sizing me up from a few tables away. Seeing me look over, he stands and makes his way to the counter.

"Had a run-in with Cliff, I understand?" He notes the confusion on my face and points to his lapel, where a sword and skull pin is secured. "I should have just found you myself. But look! I have."

"I must be lucky," I say bitterly. I've no patience to be belittled by any more "family by organization". I may as well be related to cobras.

"He is only jealous that he never had the opportunity you have been given. You _are _very lucky. With this priestess, you can go far."

"How so?" I ask, intrigued.

He laughs. "In due time, in due time. For now, you must find her. I suppose you don't know where to go, else you would not be here. Listen to me closely, little Kartik." I suppress the urge to scowl. "You will find the girl arriving at Victoria Station tomorrow at 4 o'clock in the afternoon. She will then take a carriage into the countryside and arrive at Spence Academy for Young Ladies. You must follow her and keep watch the entire time she remains there."

I take this in with full attention, relieved that I have a concrete plan. However, something is missing. "Where will I be staying?"

"There is a gypsy camp nearby. You can stay with them."

"Will they let me?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

My cheeks burn. The Rakshana members of London are not nearly as friendly as the ones in India. Just another reason for me to feel homesick.

His hand comes down on my shoulder with a crushing force. "We will be in contact, Little Kartik. Best of luck."

"Thank you," I mumble, rubbing at my shoulder once his back is turned.

Tim returns with a plate of hot, fragrant food. My mouth waters at the familiar smell of good Indian cuisine. I hadn't even noticed my hunger until now. I close my eyes and take a bite, and it's as if I'm home again.

**Still begging for good quality constructive criticism. It helps, oh yes, it helps.**

**Anyone noticing a trend with how Kartik is treated by other members of the Rakshana? Hmm. Perhaps this will explain his behavior later on? -charming smile-**

**I really like writing this approach to Kartik. It's different than how I see anyone else write him. I'm pretty proud of this, but feel free to say otherwise! I want this to be as polished as a really shiny thing. **

**Wants to start a real life Rakshana filled with girls that want to worship Kartik,  
LunaEquus**

**Reviews not only make Kartik happy in the pants area, but they also make him want to take his shirt off.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for the delay...I needed some time to think up a character for Kartik, beyond what we see in the books. I now have a general idea of a plausible personality. Happy days! Enjoy!**

Victoria Station is a crowded ordeal. I find myself in doubt that I can locate Miss Doyle and this mindset only further distracts me from my purpose. _Buck up, Kartik! How hard can it be to find a girl? _Quite hard, if you consider the sheer volume of the crowds and the unfortunate fact that the girl does not happen to be anything out of the ordinary. If she was six feet tall, perhaps, or morbidly obese, then I'm sure I could point her out in a heartbeat. However, she is not. She is a needle in a haystack.

I pause for a moment next to an information kiosk, where a man is complaining about lost luggage. I wish I could complain as well. _Excuse me sir, but I seem to have lost my priestess. Can you help me find her? Ah yes, that's her. Dreadfully sorry, I should have warned you that she kicks._

Ridiculous.

The man with the lost luggage is angry. It seems no one at the kiosk is able to help him. He thrusts his umbrella under his arm angrily and speeds off without a word. I watch disinterestedly as he bumps into a girl quite hard. She whips her head around to get a look at her disturber. I know that sullen face. I could leap for joy.

I dart behind the kiosk to avoid being seen as she scans the platform, but I fear she has caught sight of me. She steps a bit closer, searching, until her brother calls her away.

"May I help you, _sir_?" The man at the kiosk addresses me boorishly. I know that he sees only my skin color, and that is reason enough to treat me as if I am inferior. If only he knew of my true caste, part of the ancient brotherhood that infiltrates all of the powerful positions all over the world. Instead of righting the situation, and putting him in his place, I shrug, feigning no knowledge of the English language.

Miss Doyle and her brother have just secured a hansom. Much as I enjoy being belittled by my English superiors (hah!), I must be on my way.

I follow the carriage through the exhaustive passage that is London, East London, and beyond. I am thankful for daylight, and for my cricket bat, which I still keep with me.

Just in case.

There is in fact an instance in Whitechapel when I fear I might need to use it. The carriage stops as a disgustingly intoxicated man and his whore insist on being taken to Buckingham Palace. What began as a drunken joke quickly turns into a heated argument between the carousers and the cab driver.

I am reaching new levels of unease that have nothing to do with the way the inebriate gestures to what is presumably Miss Doyle. I can sense something happening, something paranormal and frightful. My most recent levels of training within the Rakshana have harbored somewhat of a sixth sense within me, an increased sensitivity to things beyond the realm of reality.

Of course, it is not necessarily a gift, but an execution of discipline. I have taught my senses to be this way, and so they shall be. It just so happens that I was among the few lucky enough to hone this beneficial ability, and thus I was paired with such a priestess. I shall know when something strange is afoot, and something strange is definitely occurring now.

Not that I know how to react, unfortunately. I can't very well knock on the door of the carriage and ask her to stop all witchery, now can I? I must speak to her alone, but until I find that chance, I must follow her, watch her every move.

I do hope she isn't dull.

"Get out of the bloody way – now!"

Suddenly the horse lets out a scream of a whinny and breaks into a nervous canter. I run after the speeding carriage with but one thought – that this girl shall not be dull, but perhaps quite interesting, for any "proper" English girl that has the daring to not only kick and scream like a banshee, but also swear and whip a horse into a fearsome gallop is definitely deserving of my respect.

The carriage and I part ways just as Spence Academy for Young Ladies comes into view. I duck off into the forest to watch as an elderly Gypsy woman stops the carriage. She speaks to Miss Doyle, but I cannot hear what words are exchanged. Instead, I study Miss Doyle's face, the moonlight giving her the appearance of an apparition, so white is her skin.

It is the first chance I get to openly stare, confident she cannot see me as I do. Her features are typical of many English girls, fine and fair, nothing spectacularly remarkable or distinguishing. But her eyes…

She withdraws back as the horse picks up a jaunty trot once more. I do not follow, but instead approach the Gypsy woman, certain I will find the camp I am to stay with. I am not within ten feet of her when she speaks.

"The Eastern Star shines brightly upon you, my son."

At first I fear I don't hear her correctly. A direct reference to the Rakshana was not something I had expected. "Good evening," I say politely. "My name is Kartik."

"I know who you are." She reaches out a withered hand and touches the middle of my forehead. "The Eastern Star…so bright, so bright. But all stars must die. It shall fade within you."

I feel my eyes widen. This woman, whomever she is, must be mad. Aside from referring to the Eastern Star, I've not a clue what she is talking about. I begin to feel wary about staying with a bunch of Gypsies, especially if they all prove to be as odd and cryptic as this woman. But I do not have any other choices, so I must.

"I was wondering if I may stay with your caravan for awhile, madam."

She eyes me suspiciously, the glazed look gone from her face. "But what do you offer?"

"Offer?" I falter. For a wild moment I picture offerings of blood or animal sacrifices. Tales of Circe and her wicked ways have resounded in my core, giving me fleeting images of dark magic at the most inopportune moments. No doubt I shall have trouble sleeping in the presence of such oddities, especially as I am not far from the girl who has the potential to unleash evil spirits into the world.

The Gypsy woman reaches within her colorful skirts and withdraws a small leather pouch that jingles from the coins inside. I nearly laugh with relief and at my ridiculous fears. She means offerings of money – payment for a place within her caravan.

I withdraw a few coins from my limited reserve of wealth and hand them to her. She fingers them intently, and then pockets them. Satisfied, she smiles, revealing a broken row of brown teeth.

"Come, child. You are welcome here."

There is already a large campfire lit within the clearing of the caravan. Several Gypsies sit around it, drinking and telling stories to one another. I can only catch a few sentences here and there amidst the drunken slurs and my limited knowledge of Romanian. A few look up in interest as I pass; one even inquires to the old woman about me.

They exchange words rapidly so that I understand nothing. The woman pats my arm and gestures to the young man that has sidled up to me. She walks off without a word of farewell, and I am left with this fellow. He appears to be about my age, perhaps a year older, but we do not resemble each other in the slightest, aside from perhaps our dark coloring. While I am tall and somewhat gangly (though I am well filled-out in terms of physique), he is also tall, but built more solidly.

"You wish to disguise yourself among us?" he asks, amused. "Mother Elena told me to help you. I am Ithal." His accent is thick, but I am grateful he speaks English at all.

"I'm Kartik," I say, holding out my hand in greeting.

Ithal glances at it and frowns. I withdraw it quickly, trying desperately to remember Gypsy etiquette. I haven't covered their kind since I was thirteen, and my memory fails me.

His thick eyebrows furrow as he sizes me up. "You'll need new clothes. No use hiding among us if you look like a _gadje_."

"_Gadje_?" I ask. I desperately wish for my old text books. I can recall scanning translations quickly, remembering just enough to pass the exam, but not enough to commit to memory. When the curriculum calls for learning languages such as French, Latin, German, and Italian, one tends to skim over less common languages such as Romanian.

"Yes, _gadje._ One who is not of our kind. An outsider."

"I see," I say lamely.

"We must work on your language as well," Ithal says, laughing.

"I know a bit," I say defensively. I don't like how he blatantly shows his superiority in the matter.

"Not enough!"

I bite my tongue; my pride may be injured but I need his help.

In just an hour's time, I emerge from a brightly lit Vardo, transformed from an unremarkable Indian in English clothing to a Gypsy, complete with vest and kerchief. I retain my black traveler's cloak, refusing to give it up despite the disguise flaws. It is a symbol of my brotherhood and my brother, not to mention it is damn useful in harsh weather conditions.

Ithal leaves me once I am dressed in disguise. It is late, and I am not captivating enough to keep him from the lure of fire and drink. I do not mind the privacy in the slightest, and welcome his dismissal with more enthusiasm than I've shown all evening. It gives me ample time to construct myself a bender tent, and also to think.

Before he left, Ithal showed me to a reserve of hazel branches and canvas, from which I could construct a shelter. Part of me wonders at the hospitality of the Gypsies, until I count the funds I have left and realize that the coins I bequeathed to Mother Elena were pounds and not pence. A small loss, considering my gain.

I build my tent skillfully and quickly, having practiced many times in my training for living in the wilderness. The result is a roomy, comfortable living space. With privacy. Ignoring the drunken delight of the Gypsy men, I duck into my tent to be alone.

There. I am alone.

_All alone_.

I've hit another part in my journey where I am at a loss. I have nothing left to do. I'm _bored._ Perhaps solitude isn't what I truly want. Summoning as much confidence as I can, I step outside and join Ithal at the campfire.

**Notes! Gadje really does mean anyone who is not a gypsy. I looked it up. Also, a Vardo is pretty much a carriage. And a bender tent is really what the gypsies constructed. Hah! Research!**

**Hmm, I wonder what will happen at the campfire. And did I detect a note of male hormones when Kartik was thinking about Gemma? Don't get me wrong, he is NOT smitten...yet.**

**Explains herself too much,  
LunaEquus**

**I love story the most out of all my fics, so you should review it the most of all my fics. CONCRIT, PLEASE! Constructive criticism makes me way better. I swear it. So please review! And to emphasize that I am doing this for the fandom and not necessarily for myself, I won't update until I have 15 reviews. This protects me from taking time out of studying to do something for nothing. Or something like that. Oi.  
**


	4. Chapter 4

**Voila! The long-awaited chapel scene. It's a long chapter, so enjoy!**

Fire is an incredible thing. As a whole it is menacing and fierce, crackling and sputtering and flashing in the dark, but after you stare at it long enough, it transforms. It becomes docile and delicate, soft flames licking at the earth and reaching towards the sky, like a lover in ecstasy. The sparks become stars drifting loftily in parallax. I am hypnotized by campfire as it shimmies and winks like the flirtiest of exotic dancers.

I remember the last time I saw such dancers. It was the last happy memory I am left with, the last day that Amar walked this earth.

I blink rapidly. Is it the memory that floods my eyes with tears, or the smoke?

"Are you alright, my friend?" Ithal claps a hand on my back, jarring me from my thoughts. To avoid the humiliation, I quickly decide that my tears are from the smoke in my eyes, and I cough violently for effect. The rest of the scene comes back into focus after a brief disappearance caused by the potent alcohol now making its way back around to me. The crude moonshine affects me in such a way I become like fire myself – burning, coughing, and sputtering.

I confess that in my every experience drinking, the alcohol affects me the same way. I become quiet, introspective, and rather moody. So much for calling the drinks "spirits". I've never felt less spirited.

"I'm going to get some fresh air," I croak, reaching for the lantern at my feet. I walk until the voices fade to nothing and the firelight no longer gropes at the trees, pulling itself along. With the silence and darkness it is easier to reconstruct my surroundings. I briefly consider the strength of will, and whether it will ever be enough to change things.

I am drunk. I confess that I am not completely consumed by it, but my senses are still dulled into a generalized slur. That owl over there – did I hear it first or see it first? Did it even make a noise? Is it even an owl? I rub at my eyes, pressing hard until a dull throb protests from my sockets. I see no owls now, only spots where my vision struggles to reassert itself.

A man's senses are an incredible thing. They are so finely tuned that with knowledge and experience, one can detect anything quite easily, or imagine something that is not there. I used to try that all the time; I'd concentrate my hardest to try and envision a corporeal apparition of something until my brother bade me to stop. "You're going cross-eyed," he'd say.

It is also an incredible thing that a simple foreign substance can alter a man's senses into oblivion. I shall never drink moonshine again.

If the damp chill of England is good for one thing, it is to aid one in sobering up. Detached from the hypnotic campfire and rowdy Gypsies, I already feel much better.

Across the dewy lawn, the school's chapel looms like a perched dragon, waiting to take flight. The steeple's skeletal cross is backlit by the silvery moon, a black beacon for the Lord. I've always vaguely wondered why Christians built their houses of worship in such an eerie fashion; I can hardly imagine being comforted by such a place.

And yet, for centuries such places have offered comfort to the many that seek it. What is it that Christians find there that I do not? The Rakshana discourages any sort of worship to any and all religions. To us, there is no God, no Allah, no Shiva, Parvati, Durga. We are among the most prominent Atheists, forever arguing against the existence of God.

But for what?

There are millions of people that worship a higher being, and millions of people that are rewarded for it. They have something to pray to, to live for. Whether or not their faith is in vain is not an issue. The truth is that they _believe_ in their God, and for that they find comfort. We, the Rakshana, have no deity to pray to in times of need, but that does not mean that one does not exist. Instead, we live without hope or faith, only truth and fact.

We already know that there is an afterlife, the realms of which we protect. We know that death sends us there. There is no heaven or hell, only the realms. It does not matter if you sin or not, everyone will still end up in the same place.

I often wonder how Amar is doing, if he has fared well in the afterlife. I hope he has managed to cross over in spite of being taken by Circe's tracker. The realms we know about, and the part of them comparable to Hell. The uncertainties of the afterlife lie in what happens when one crosses over. Surely it must be paradise, or at least better than being in Hell, or in limbo for eternity. Amar is,_ was_ a good man. If anyone deserves eternal happiness, it is him.

What if we were Christians? What if I had no knowledge of what happens after death? I'd still be grieving, as I am now, but I'd have a ray of hope that I can make a difference in Amar's fate. Christians pray to their God that their loved ones will make it to heaven, but all I can do is hope for the best. And do nothing but that.

It almost makes me wish that if only for a moment, I was Christian.

It isn't until my hands grasp the brass handles of the chapel's heavy doors do I realize just what I am doing. The inside of the chapel is dark, the sort of dark that makes you certain someone is pressing a blindfold across your eyes. I recall that I still carry my lantern, but in case some pious person still remains in the vicinity, I do not light it for fear of capture. My eyes adjust in small doses; first the stained glass windows glow, then the brass crucifix catches the bit of moonlight streaming in through the rose window at the altar. It isn't much, but it is enough to see by.

I take a moment to examine the stained glass windows. Aside from the typical scenes of saints and saviors, there is one pane that illustrates a slain gorgon. How odd and undeniably pagan for an Anglican Church to have.

Truthfully, I'm unsure of my motives. I swear I can feel the eyes of the many marble saints in the niches staring at me, wondering in vain, "what is this heathen doing here?" I almost wish to reassure their pupil-less gazes that I mean no harm. I am no heathen, only a lost soul wishing for a bit of guidance.

How does one address a God he does not believe in? _Hello, my name is Kartik. Yes, I know you're supposedly omniscient, but I felt the need for introductions. It's polite, you see. Yes, I know you know that. No, I'm not taking an uncivil tone with you. _

I sigh. If God is omniscient, doesn't He already know all of my troubles? Or does He turn a blind eye to me because I technically don't believe in Him? But if that were the case, wouldn't He smite me for my ignorance? Either He doesn't exist, or He does and just happens to love everyone. And if He loves everyone, than why do people like Circe exist? Why would He allow such evil to kill someone so good, like my brother Amar?

My questions are no more honed than they were when I was six years old. My time in the Rakshana has not changed my desire for divine answers, it just suppressed it. _There is no God. There is science and mathematics and physics. This is how the world is and why it works. End of story. _The truth, cold and hard, may offer excuses, but it does not offer comfort or guidance. Faith does, but I have no faith in anything anymore.

I suppose that is my weakness. I am ungrateful, truly, to second guess the Rakshana, and I feel wretched for it. I was certain that we were all a tight-knit family, but then Amar was murdered. If anything, his death made me grow up and realize just what we are fighting for. There _is _no God; how could I have thought that? God is nothing but a guise to fill the gap where one has no answers. Just because I seek answers doesn't mean I need a God to tell me what is right or wrong. I am Rakshana. I already know.

Multiple sets of footsteps resound outside, followed by the giggles and shrieks of schoolgirls. I have a feeling I'm about to bear witness to something scandalous. The heavy door creaks open and I steal back into the shadows, well hidden from the intruders.

Intruders? Isn't that exactly what I am? Even more so, as I have no parents to pay the tuition for me to receive an education on eloquence and Christian charity.

"You can't very well expect me to find it in the dark," a vaguely familiar voice says. It is my priestess.

"Feel your way," says another girl's cold voice. A body stumbles into the chapel. By the light of the moon, I can see that it is Miss Doyle, dressed only in a nightgown. Suddenly, I know the cause for this late-night excursion, but I must say I'm surprised that even English schoolgirls take part in such cruel initiations.

As the girls outside swing the door back into place and bolt the door, my suspicions are confirmed. They've locked Miss Doyle in, and me as well.

For the moment, I am frozen without a clue of what to do. Miss Doyle breathes loudly and shallowly; she is afraid. I must say I cannot blame her, though I doubt the other girls dragged her out of the school by her hair. She must have had some desire for their favor, and this knowledge somehow makes me respect her less.

While we are both trapped here, alone without any witnesses, I will finally have my chance to speak with her about what she is and what she must do.

She walks cautiously up the aisle like a ragged bride about to wed the devil. I follow her, a silent shadow. I time my steps so that they match hers without offering any more noise. In my concentration, I somehow manage to choke on my own saliva. My chest heaves with the effort to hold in my cough, but it escapes my lips anyhow. Ahead of me, she freezes.

In a flash, she's running for the altar, her bare feet slapping against the marble. I run after her, not really giving proper chase. There is no need to, for she's tripped on a step and fallen. But this does not stop her; she's crawling on hands and knees and then up once more, reaching for another door. I did not take alternate exits into account. If she escapes, I may have no other chances to speak to her.

I sprint towards her, using the low bench used for prayer as a catapult to leap over her crouched form and block her exit. My hand finds her mouth and I pull her towards me.

That wretched girl bites my hand so that I drop her in surprise. I should have known better; this kitten has claws.

She leaps up and tries to run, but she's been hurt in the struggle. I use her weakness as my advantage and grab her by the ankle, bringing her down hard. She hits the ground with a slight yelp, and I feel bad for a moment. Her nightgown rides up her pale legs dangerously high as she tries to crawl away.

At least I know she's not one to give up easily. Good for her.

"Stop. Please," I say. She lays splayed on the marble floor looking like a virgin sacrifice as I light my lantern. She gazes at me for a moment; I see the spark of recognition in her wide eyes. Then she is up again, but I block the door before she reaches it.

"I'll scream. I swear I will," she says.

Her threats are empty, but they warn me all the same. If we were to be caught… I would be blamed fully, thrown in jail. But the danger shall be a suitable warning to her as well, for she would be deemed ruined. "No, you won't," I say. "How will you explain what you're doing here with me in the middle of the night without proper clothes, Miss Doyle?" She knows what I am implying – that she met me here willingly, but not with the intentions to pray. Her arms close over her body, trying unsuccessfully to hide herself from me. Lucky for her I have better things on my mind than gawking.

She steps behind the altar. "Who are you?"

"You don't need to know who I am," I say, ridiculously deciding that now is the time for secrecy. Oh well, the less she knows, the better.

"You know my name. Why can't I know yours?"

I suppose telling her my name can't do much harm. It's not as if knowing my name will reveal all of my secrets. "Kartik."

"Kartik. Is that your real name?"

I know she's suspicious, afraid of me even, and I somehow find it comical. Anyone who really knows me knows that I am not intimidating in the least. But she doesn't know me, and she's afraid. "I've given you a name. That's enough." My indirect lie surprises me. I'm discovering a new persona and I'd like to explore it a bit.

"What do you want?" Her green eyes may be frightened, but there is a strength in them that I admire.

"Just to talk to you."

"You've been following me. At the train station today. And earlier at vespers." Her statement is more of a question, as if she's trying to reassure herself that she hasn't been seeing things.

I could lie. I could make her doubt herself, think herself mad, but even this new facet of my personality finds that to be cruel. I nod. "I stowed away on the _Mary Elizabeth_ in Bombay. Rough passage," I say, recalling my vertigo. "I know the English are terribly sentimental about the sea, but I can live without it." If I had hoped to lighten the mood, I have failed.

"Why? Why come all this way?" Her brows furrow as she cocks her head slightly. The lantern's light catches the edges of her hair and for a moment I'm struck with the similarities to this evening's campfire. "As I told you, I need to talk to you." I can't tear my eyes from her hair. I step forward involuntarily, but she shrinks away. I fear she will try and escape again, so I must be quick to catch her attention. "It's about that day and your mother."

"What do you know about my mother?" Her voice is shrill and it startles a bird in the rafters. From the look in her eyes I can tell that she knows something is amiss about her mother's death.

"I know that she didn't die of cholera, for one thing," I say softly.

It is brief, but I catch it. A moment of hesitation. "If you're hoping to blackmail my family…"

"Nothing of the sort," I say, stepping forward.

She backs up again and realizes she is trapped against the altar. "Go on," she says shakily. She is just as weak as she was that day. Weak when she ran away, weak when her immaturity killed her mother and my brother.

"You saw it happen, didn't you?"

"No," she lies feebly.

"You're lying."

"N-no…I…"

Obviously sublety does not get through her dense skull. In a swift motion, I leap onto the altar and crouch before her. I hold the lantern close so that she can see that I am not playing games. "For the last time, what did you see?" I demand.

Her eyes reveal all. They widen in terror and uncertainty, reflecting the lantern light and my own figure, rendered black in shadow. It nearly frightens me to see myself this way, an evil creature in her luminous eyes. Perhaps I am the devil to wed this ragged bride.

"I…I saw her killed. I saw them both killed."

I grit my teeth at the mention of Amar. "Go on."

She recalls the vision with great difficulty. It must be hard to have the images of your mother's murder floating around in your head. "I…I tried to call out to her, but she couldn't hear me. And then…" She trails off.

"What?" I prompt insensitively.

"I don't know." She closes her eyes briefly. "It was as if the shadows started to move…I've never seen anything like it…some hideous creature." Something in her face softens and I realize she's been holding this in all along.

"Your mother took her own life, didn't she?"

"Yes," she whispers.

"She was lucky," I say without thinking how it might sound. _Extremely stupid._

Her green eyes harden. "How dare you -,"

I seek to right my rash words. "Trust me, she was lucky not to be taken by that thing. As for my brother, he was not so fortunate." Not fortunate at all.

"What is it?" she asks.

"Nothing you can fight."

"I saw it again. On the carriage ride here. I had another…vision."

My stomach drops in the same fashion it does when you dive off a tall cliff into a deep pool of water. This means my extra sense was correct. She did have a vision, which means that the realms are not done with Miss Doyle just yet. If anyone finds out…

I climb off the altar and push in front of her. "Listen to me well, Miss Doyle. You are not to speak about what you've seen to anyone. Do you understand?"

"Why not?"

"Because it will put you in danger." No need to indulge her in knowing that an ancient society of women will be knocking down her door for information if they find out.

"What was that thing I saw?"

I do not know exactly what it is, so I relay the information given to me by the Rakshana. "It was a warning. And if you don't want other, terrible things to happen, you will not bring on any more visions," I recite verbatim. I frown. That last part sounded odd to me…

She seems to think so too. She laughs bitterly, twisting her face into a sneer. "And how, pray tell, am I supposed to do that? It's not as if I asked for it in the first place."

She's right, but there's no way I'll tell her that. "Close your mind to them and they'll stop soon enough." Another answer thanks to the Rakshana.

"And if I can't?" she asks petulantly.

I've had it with her attitude and I am out of answers. I do something I'd never have done before Amar died – I result to physical force. I grab her wrist and squeeze hard so that her eyes widen in pain. "You will," I say with finality. And with that, so easily, she falls silent. I smile with my success at dominating her, then let her go. "We will be watching you, Miss Doyle," I say.

I am saved by more questions by the drunken singing of the Reverend. The moment Miss Doyle turns around, I make my exit. Through the adrenaline pumping through my veins I can discern one nagging thought. I do not like how I handled the situation, and I fear it will someday be returned to me in some unpleasant way. After all, it's bad to toy with fire, and fiery is what she is.

**Aww uncertain Kartik! He's just searching for something to believe in!**

**Once again, I ask for as much concrit as you can offer. Thank you all so much for your reviews so far. Please let me know if you think I'm doing Kartik justice.**

**Thanks in advance,  
LunaEquus**

**Please review! Because you know what sucks? Seeing that many people read and only about one out of 20 actually review. Please don't make this author think she's losing her edge. Because then she doesn't feel like updating.  
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